


Nobody Wins a War

by Carbocat



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, a lot of violins were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 16:33:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11672919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbocat/pseuds/Carbocat
Summary: “Why are you telling me this?”“Your face is too long and your eyes have gone back to war, I don’t like it.”“So, you told me something even more depressing than war?”





	Nobody Wins a War

Mostly, he remembered Aline Kuragina.

He could look back on the days his family was selling everything to make up for the sudden death of his father and he could remember so fondly the woman with the white blonde hair and the high collared coat. He could remember how she did not belong there among the dirty and poor inhabitants of the market place, picking up and observing the trinkets at his mother’s booth with the utmost curiosity.

He could remember how she bought cheap broach after cheap broach and laid down enough rubles to secure him a new coat for the winter. He could look back and smile but he couldn’t allow himself that because then he’d remember her smile and how it grew smaller and smaller.

If he remembered Aline Kuragina then he’d remember the boy, squeaky voice with hair so blond and coat so outrageous that sometimes chattered away on her heels as she observed. He’d remember the violin, so beautiful and expensive, like an extension of his thin arms and how he charmed even a smile onto his mother’s hard face with his missing tooth and little bow, “An-tole K _ur_ agin, it is an honor to meet you, ma’am!”

He’d remember how the boy was told that he could get one thing – _“Just one, mon cher” -_  and he’d remember his gloved hand being gripped tight by a hand much smaller and gloves much thicker and the impossibly bright smile as he observed the beaded elephant pennant hidden in his palm. He’d remember the declaration that _that_ was the one thing he wanted, the beaded purple elephant that Fedya’s mother told him he could keep if it was still there at the end of the day.

He’d remember his indignant anger, the shock and disappointment in his mother’s eyes when he grabbed the neck of the violin and snapped it over his knee. He’d remember the tears in those impossibly blue eyes and the regret he felt putting them there.

If he allowed himself to remember Aline Kuragina then he’d have to remember Anatole Kuragin and the boy he’d been with limbs so lanky and clumsy, baby fat over sharp bones, and a confidence and charm he did not deserve. He’d have to remember perfect blue eyes swimming like thawing lakes, the crack in the voice, and the violin under one arm.

He’d have to remember the snow in blond hair and the shaking, and the very polite, very formal invitation to the funeral of Aline Kuragina.

If he remembered all of that, he’d have to remember the way composure gave way to tears, and the way thin bony shoulders slotted so easily into his side. He’d remember how his eyes got teary over the mother he did not lose, remember sitting in the snow and the dirt and saying _it’ll be okay, you’ll be okay. It’s a better place where she is, trust me, I lost a parent too._ And not believing a single word of it.

He’d be forced to remember the rumors, Aline Kuragina mixed her cocktail with cyanide, he’d have to remember the dimmed smile and how it matched that of her son. He’d have to remember the bruises under stupid coats and how his glide around the market place was hindered with a limp. He’d have to remember the violin, tucked under a cut on his chin as he charmed the girls, and the bloody smile, and all those _dumb_ excuses to explain busted lips and black eyes.

He’d be forced to remember his mother’s easy acceptance of those excuses because abuse doesn’t happen to princes, and how thin, and blond, and feminine Anatole was, _is_ , in a high collared coat and how much like his mother he would forever be.

If he remembered Aline Kuragina and the boy, he’d remember the bar that neither of them should have been in and the wild rebellious streak of an idiot prince and the bright-eyed wonder of that same idiot. He’d remember the smirk and the cheekbones, and all the perfume and fluff and ridiculous coat buttons that would impress only those with castles and titles but not Dolokhov and not anybody inside.

He’d remember the violin, different but well-loved, as beautiful as its owner, sat atop the bar and the drink that was ordered for him. He’d remember the clink of glasses and the arm thrown over his shoulder, the heat of breath against his cheek, “Old friend, Dolokhov.”

“We are not friends.”

“Of course, mon cher,” he remembered the grin, the confidence and surety and it felt like smooth vodka in his heart. “You broke my violin.”

“Why would we be friends, Anatole, I _broke_ your violin.”

“Who else would I want to be friends with, Fedya?”

He’d remember the heat of a vodka fueled kiss and snow in his collar, he’d remember the pull on his jacket and his fist against sharp cheekbone and the snapping of the cherry wood violin beneath his hands. He’d remember the regret.

If he remembered Aline Kuragina and all the ways she led him to Anatole, then he’d have to remember the war. He’d be forced to remember the innocence in wide blue eyes, the excitement and wonder to be out of a castle so grand and the dread that pooled in the pit of his stomach at what had to have happened behind closed door to make war such a bright alternative.

He’d remember the last night in Petersburg, tangled in sheets and clothes, and kisses and sweat, and the tears that slipped into his hairline as Anatole plucked absentmindedly at the strings of his violin. He would not remember the words or what was said that lead to yelling, and shoving, and Anatole flinching so violently when he broke the violin into pieces.

He’d remember the downcast of eyes as he left for the front line and Anatole left for Poland.

He’d remember that damn violin and all the ways that Anatole never really changed.

Dolokhov would never remember what it was that possessed him in a bar full of war wary soldiers on leave, his soldiers and who was left of Anatole’s platoon, to bring the case from below the bar to the top.

It was a gift from the father of a Polish landowner of some small means that forced him to marry his daughter, Anatole had noted, smiled proudly like the violin had been worth it all. Married only a fortnight ago and already messing with other girls. He never found it in himself to question why he cared so much, why he cared at all.

He would not remember what possessed him to lift the instrument from its beautiful case, observe it the way Aline had all those trinkets and then snap the neck in his hands. He would always remember the sound it made when he dropped it on the floor.

He’d remember always the deathly silence of the bar and the way Anatole’s stupid perfect blue eyes went wide, his mouth stuttering and then stammering shut when a snicker worked through the crowd. He’d remember the war-wary hysterical break in the room and then loud raucous laughter that showed just how exhausted his men were, how exhausted he was, and Anatole – always so fucking perfect.

He’d remember the blush that climbed across pale cheeks, and the anger set in blue eyes, and he’d remember the way he taunted him, “Aye, pretty prince, what’d’you gonna do about it?”

He’d remember the taste of blood in his mouth and the hard thwack of the bow against his face, the thin bloody line cutting his cheekbone to his lip and how he was kind of proud of Anatole for it. He’d remember dodging the next hit and the one after that until the violin bow broke against the bar.

He’d remember the bony fist that came for his face, the throaty frustrated growl, and Anatole still in his evening dress, tripping over his own coat. He’d remember the uncoordinated child at the very core of the proud prince and Dolokhov, he’d remember his men.

War had changed him in the worst way, he’d remember with a shiver, the way his men had jumped to stand up for their own. He’d remember that Anatole was a prince, that he never be one of them.

Dolokhov, the disappointing son of his mother’s tough love. Dolokhov, the assassin. Dolokhov, who watched with numb curiosity as the men under his command beat his best friend and tossed him out into the snow.

He remembered the blood staining the snow the way that blood stained the battle grounds, remembered how light Anatole’s slim figure was even limp in his arms and the scars hidden beneath the coat and vest of his uniform when he stripped off the wet clothing.

He remembered the conversation when morning came.

“There are times that I cannot remember my mother’s voice,” Anatole said quietly, suddenly, still scrubbing the blood from his coat’s collar. “I remember her touch, the way she smelt, how she’d show me off to her friends – I was her favorite, she always told me – but I don’t remember how she sounded when she was happy.”

He blinked, his eyes flickering from the crisscrossing pattern of scars across his companion’s bare back to the eyes watching him in the mirror across the room, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Your face is too long and your eyes have gone back to war, I don’t like it.”

“So, you told me something even more depressing than war?”

“Yes, of course, Fedya,” He told him, turning in his chair so they were facing each other face to face. There was a long jagged scar across his collarbone. “Your problems are not worse than that, eh?”

The market place and Aline Kuragina seemed so far away but, Anatole was still that same stupid child with the perfect blue eyes and the broken violin that wanted to be his friend. The war had not changed him because he did not see the true horror of it but Dolokhov did.

Dolokhov was changed, not for the better, and Anatole was out of depth trying to comfort anybody but he was trying just for him. He frowned, he lied, “I think not.”

“Then be merry, we live to love another day,” He smiled. “You should come with me to Moscow, Fedya. It would not be a true adventure without you there.”

He would live to regret it, he just knew it, even as he nodded, “Okay.”


End file.
